A contrived monologue,
brimming with empty words
cannot cure my insanity.

Perhaps there is no cure.

Just a deep craving,
an insatiable yearning
for something only
a muse can appease

For it's the muse alone that
engulfs my consciousness,
leads the pen across the paper,
permits me to paint
my dark thoughts
into a bright canvas of words.

Without my beloved,
I'm utterly uninspired;
not a writer, nor a person;
Just a maze without an exit